Should I Still Wish is a profoundly moving memoir of loves recovery....The brilliance of this insightful book is in its honest articulation of great paradox love can rise complete and uncompromised even as grief endures, and the human heart can belong simultaneously to both life and death, neither of which triumphs forever.
Jonathan Johnson, author of Hannah and the Mountain: Notes toward a Wilderness Fatherhood
Beautifully observed and unstintingly honest, Should I Still Wish tries to make sense of a world rendered senseless by tragedy. Its real brilliance, though, is in its interweaving of sorrow and joy, its examination of what it means to simultaneously mourn an old life and celebrate a new one.
Katharine Noel, author of Halfway House
Praise for John W. Evanss Young Widower
Winner of the 2014 Foreword Reviews INDIEFAB Book of the Year Award
In this honest depiction of his deceased wife and their loving but complicated marriage, and in his willingness to end his story without easy redemption, Evans avoids the predictable arc of many memoirs.... Thanks to honest and sadly beautiful books like Young Widower, we are at the very least helpless together. We cant go on, well go on.
Los Angeles Review of Books
A tragic story told with such grace and artistry that the complex exploration of grief is finally revealed as redemptive. The honesty of John Evanss writing is unfaltering and deeply impressive.
Kevin Casey, author of A State of Mind
While the haunting account of the day Katie died is especially riveting, it is the unfolding and cathartic grieving process that underpins and elevates this heartbreaking tale.
Booklist
For those times when life is bitter and unreasonable, there are stories like Johnsbooks that accept the ugliness of both death and survival and remind us to be grateful and angry and preciously alive.
Books JAdore
An urgent, palpably emotional account of coping with extreme grief.
Kirkus
Though the tragedy of Evanss title is borne out, his memoir brims with maturity and authenticity, and it should find a ready readership with those who have lived through incredible loss. Young Widower is both a loving tribute to a cherished spouse and a testament to survival.
ForeWord Reviews
This book brims with unforgettable images and moments, but Evanss greatest achievement is allowing readers to see his wife, Katie, as he didnot as a saint or as a martyr, but as a passionate and dynamic and flawed woman whom he deeply loved.
Justin St. Germain, author of Son of a Gun
A riveting and devastating chronicle of the tragedy that brutally ended a life and a marriage, and the aftermath of grief. Told with uncompromising candor and poetic precision, Young Widower is an unforgettable memoir of unrelenting beauty.
Patricia Engel, author of The Veins of the Ocean
Should I Still Wish
American Lives
Series editor: Tobias Wolff
Should I Still Wish
A Memoir
John W. Evans
University of Nebraska Press | Lincoln and London
2017 by John W. Evans
Cover designed by University of Nebraska Press; cover illustration Daniel Haskett
Author photo Andrew Stanbridge
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Evans, John W. (John William), 1977 author.
Title: Should I still wish: a memoir / John W. Evans.
Description: Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, [2017] | Series: American lives
Identifiers: LCCN 2016014263 (print)
LCCN 2016031248 (ebook)
ISBN 9780803295223 (paperback: alk. paper)
ISBN 9780803295797 (epub)
ISBN 9780803295803 (mobi)
ISBN 9780803295810 (pdf)
Subjects: LCSH : Evans, John W. (John William), 1977 | WidowersUnited StatesBiography. | WivesDeathPsychological aspects. | Loss (Psychology) | Adjustment (Psychology) | Man-woman relationships. | Remarriage. | BISAC : BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs.
Classification: LCC HQ 1058.5. U 5 E 927 2017 (print) | LCC HQ 1058.5. U 5 (ebook) | DDC 155.2/4dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016014263
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
for Walt, Sam, and Monty,
who might wonder,
and
for Cait,
always
Thence issuing we again beheld the stars.
Inferno, Canto XXXIV
Remember this, I remember telling myself, hang on to this. I could feel it all skittering away, whatever conjunction of beauty and improbability I had stumbled upon.
Patricia Hampl, Red Sky in the Morning
Contents
My deepest thanks to my editor, Alicia Christensen, for recognizing this book and championing its place at the University of Nebraska Press. Thanks also to Rosemary Vestal, Tayler Lord, Maggie Boyles, and Martyn Beeny for helping this book to find its readers and to the design team for the beautiful cover. Thanks to Julie Kimmel for her careful editing eye. I am grateful to the Creative Writing Program at Stanford University for its generous support, especially Eavan Boland and Ken Fields. Thanks to Ray Peterson. Special thanks to Johnathan Johnson, Katharine Noel, Tricia ONeill, Shannon Pufahl, Thayer Lindner, and Don Mayer for reading various early drafts, and to Cait, for reading all of them.
I left Indiana and drove toward happiness. I meant to get far to one side of the map. In two or three weeks, I told myself, my car would take me across the Mississippi River, through the Badlands, into the Rockies, and out of the High Desert, arriving finally to hills at the edge of the Pacific Ocean, golden in late summer, where I would sublet a small apartment from the friend of a friend and begin my next life. That I could name the place, San Francisco, and had been asked to go there for work meant that no one would fault me for my leaving. I was thirty-one years old, healthy, and still reasonably flush with insurance money. I had someone elses home to squat in, and a reason besides death to continue living in the world.
I had lived in Indiana with Ed and his family for a year and seven weeks. The night before I left, we went to dinner at the Italian restaurant. We drank expensive cocktails and ordered the specials. I made a toast and picked up the bill, fought back tears and tried the usual small jokes, and of course, it didnt feel like nearly enough of a gesture of thanks, and nothing at all like an end. For every new way we had imagined to say good-bye that summer, from the impromptu mall photo booth visit to the movie-plex binge on romantic comedies and space epics to our last-last trip to Baskin Robbins, in letters and collages and a terrific block party where neighbors inscribed with good wishes a Far Side anthology while we mixed cocktails in a cake mixer and sang the back catalog of Billy Joel, the prospect of my absence seemed only to stunt the emotional asymptotes, lengthening our days as we approached my departure date. Surely, we agreed, un-tacking the wall calendar and boxing my books, I wasnt really leaving. All this time, I think we meant, I hadnt only been their sad interloper.
All summer, I had sent letters and packages to a post office in the Sierras. Cait lived in San Francisco, but she was spending the summer at her familys cabin. We were old friends from the Peace Corps. Cait had come to our wedding and, three years later, to Katies funeral. In the first months after Katies death, Cait had mailed care packages from the Bay Area: sourdough bread, Pride pins, a
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